Harry Potter and the Whole Enemy
by iSaint
Summary: What if Voldermort was as evil and sadistic and smart that he had really fought Dumbledore to a standstill? What if Harry had really lived with the horror that is the Dursleys? What if the heroic story of Harry Potter had been horribly, brilliantly real?
1. Chapter 1

**CH 1**

Harry looked around at the cramped cupboard and laughed bitterly. Who ever knew that this place would become his haven? The place where he felt most safe. Harry knew he had not had the most normal of conditions under which he lived, but even so he often found himself wondering what it might be like to be someone else. What it might have been like if another had occupied the role as the "ignored", the "forgotten", the "uncared for" in this family.

Family! Hah. Harry let out another bitter bark of laughter that shook his body and made his eyes water from a combination of rage and sadness. Harry made a fist, his body shaking with the tears and the anger. His disgust and ire becoming dark, angry clouds over a deep sea... and no matter how hot or hard the lightning struck the water and what it may have been able to boil, the sea that represented the intense longing Harry had for a real family barely moved. But every time he tried to divert those waters, send them to a nice idyllic lake or maybe a nice tributary, to think about "what ifs" and "if only's" he just ended up dipping into such cold waters that everything else became numb. And when you go numb and slowly warm up, what happens? Pain.

Harry wiped away his tears and tried to cheer himself up, "Aren't you a little young to be suffering from depression?" he whispered to himself, staring at his little plastic figurines, or, at least, where he knew they were. The cupboard was dark at this time of night; his "parents" were not very loose with the electric bill. And years before he had learned any discrepancies in the bill would be his fault, regardless of cause. Harry's hand stretched out, grabbing one of the figurines that was exaclty where he knew it would be. The smooth plastic felt calming in a hand that seemed too hot for a child. He had had the figurines ever since Dursley had decided that they were too uninteresting, sometime around Harry's 8th birthday. Harry had thought that they were wonderful, and they became even more precious whenever Harry felt especially torn apart. Their smooth, blank expressions allowed him to easily escape into their world. A world of Indians and Cowboys, a place where the good guy simply existed, won, and did everything right. He would charge ahead, guns a-blazing towards those who would rob, steal, or hurt people for no good reason. Their arrows would inevitabley miss, their aim as skewed as their morals, as Harry charged, dirty from a previous escapade, taking each and everyone of them down.

Harry's hand tightened on the plastic figure as his eyes grew heavy, and he whispered to himself, "Happy Birthday Harry. Tomorrow is your 11th birthday, and you are just 7 short years from going on your own adventure."

* * *

><p>Quirinus stared up at the troll that loomed above him, his blood a dark red splatter on the club that it carried. The pain had been crushing at first, the entirety of a sun rammed into his right side. He knew that his lungs had been punctured and with his wand somewhere towards the East Quirinus was quickly trying to make sure that his last thoughts in this world were not of a great enough magnitude to cause him to be a ghost. Quirinus had always thought that the ghosts that roamed the halls of Hogwarts should have been pitied; their lack of progress, of forward motion, of <em>living<em> had been too terrible to behold sometimes.

It was why Quirinus was here, in these northern forests (look up where Voldermort was); he had needed to get out once again. The need to overcome his anxiety, to prove himself a human being was what got Quirinus out of his bed in the mornings. He had spent years forcing himself into situations that he felt uncomfortable in, and it, occasionally, had paid off. He remembered his first time studying Muggles, a world that had been so remarkable and scary in comparison to his sheltered years with his magick prone family. He had been one of the forerunners in finally understanding the differences in Muggle undergarments, which had long mystified the greatest mages. He remembered the speech he had given, the applause, the praise, the conquering of his own fears and worries and the unbelievable feeling of pride that had accompanied that. His wand had glowed for several days afterwards, and the majority of spells he had casted for the remaining week had had the addition of tassles and glitter. It had been embarassing in public, but in private Quirinus had done all manner of spells by himself, revelling in his accomplishment and the manifestation of his happiness... and now this.

The sun in his ribs flared again, his breath coming ragged, hot, and pained. His vision was blurring. The pain, while terrible and intense, was magnificent in its own way. It was a pain that he could die from, not the slow and comfortable death of an old man sinking into his beloved chair never to rise again, but a death that clearly signaled a taste for adventure; a taste that Quirinus had acquired through hard work, sweat, blood, tears, nail-biting, criticisms, and the destructive whispers of his colleagues, who had doubted him.

The star in his side seemed to spread, the vision of the troll above him becoming a halo of pure light that emeneated from all around Quirinus. He could accept this. A death that had come from his pursuit of further knowledge in a world that Quirinus needed to explore. Quirinus would not become a ghost, he decided, he would not live some kind of half life. He would die here, the light of the sun in his face, as the troll above him recovered from the wounds that Quirinus had inflicted. The wound _he _had inflicted, against a troll! Quirinus tried to laugh, the sound reverberating in his collasped lungs and coming out in a hot hiss of satisfaction.

The sun was getting brighter, the troll no longer a figure of solid flesh and terrible weight, but a creature of ethereal beauty, as the sun washed through it, the warmth of it on Quirinus's face. Quirinus made one last grab at the world, his hands closing in on the grass beneath him, wet with his own blood. And as Quirinus smiled and felt the sun on his teeth, on his eyes, and on his heart, something else came, something that was dark, that ate up the warmth and light that beckoned to Quirinus. Something hissed, and spat, and forced itself into Quirinus's vision. He heard a WHUMP that shook the earth around his body, sounding suspiciously like a falling troll. And then from above, from all sides, drilling into Quirinus was the cold of something worse than death, the cold of an icy hatred, the cold of frozen wastelands that dwell in darkness eternal, and to whom the sun is enemy, the moon too bright. Quirinus felt the sun retreat, the light that had haloed his world disappear and be replaced with the deep shadows of his own blood; he felt the star of pain that resided in his side become numb, an empty echo of what his flesh had felt like, and he knew that something had gone wrong. That this was wrong, and that the light was gone, and he cried, the first tears he had shed since the troll had mangled his body, as the light went away, and cruel laughter froze in the air.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore studied the list in front of him carefully. The names of young wizards and witches staring back at him. His eyes rested on one in particular, Harry Potter. No letter of acceptance had been sent to Mr. Potter, for fear of interception. Voldermort had no trouble torturing animals, even as a small boy, if the stories were true, and at this point, Albus was pretty sure that every story about Tom had been true...<p>

Another cruel lesson in cynicism, humanity, and darkness, Albus had thought his will and eye had been properly tempered by Grindewald. And yet here they were once again, the old scars aching, the more recent ones less dull, an immediate sense of what was coming. Albus sighed, the roster disappearing from his hands as if it had apparated. Leaning back in his chair, Albus thought about Harry Potter, Wars, Suffering, Scars, and the common, indestructible threads that connected them all.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

Very First Chapter. Review, Message me,

Yell at me, Curse your computer, Pray to

the Gods I am struck down, Just do something.

Also, Please tell me if I mess something up.

Hopefully, updates will happen once a Week! : O


	2. Chapter 2

**CH2**

Harry had eventually fell and made his way into the depths of his own nightmares; nightmares that had plagued him ever since he could remember. In the dream he was ephermeal, and the cold, harsh lines and solidness of the surrounding world made everything hurt. The sun was knives that pierced his body, the ground a behemoth of twigs and rocks that stabbed him. And all throughout it, was the formless hate that stitched his body together. Harry did not understand his dreams, but he knew that they were there for a reason. He needed to be punished, probably because of his parents. His step-father always said that his parents were good for nothing; that they were the reason he couldn't be treated nicely, so that he wouldn't become like them.

Part of Harry knew that that couldn't be right, but after enough time and effort that part of him had been worn away. And the scar tissue that popped up all around that tender spot was now harder than steel, and it was only in the quiet night, near the soothing and faceless presence of his plastic figurines that Harry could entertain thoughts of indepence, sweetness, and the hope that his parents had been good people, that his step-parents had been misinformed.

This time though, as Harry awoke, startled and sweating in the early morning, he realized that the dream had changed. As he had woken up the dream fading back into the darkness, he had seen the world change. The sun and earth had started to hurt less, the horrible burning of the light had lessened, and satisfaction had hit him like a giant's fist. Harry, for the first time in a long time, awoke with a smile affixed to his face. "Maybe today will be special" Harry thought, as he opened the door to his room under the stairs.

Harry, for years now, had always been in charge of breakfast at the Dursley estate. Every morning at 6am Harry awoke, physical pain being a great motivator for the construction and careful tuning of an inner clock. He then would get up, fix breakfast, put on a pot of coffee, clean, and generally prepare things for the Dursleys. This time of mindless cleaning, with the soft smell of morning, and the creeping cold that swept around Harry like an old friend, was his favorite time. The stillness that seemed so at odds with the heavy pounding and labored breathing of the Dursley family was always a welcome respite.

Harry knew the routine of his life well. He was also the one who cleaned up at night, and so he knew where everything was. Harry padded quietly into the kitchen, wiggling his fingers to get the last of the morning cold out of his blood. Harry, barely looking, reached up to the cupboard and got out the pan that he personally had designated for eggs. Standing in front of the stove, Harry put it down, turned on the stove, and then turned to get some Pam.

Harry stopped. Harry squealed just a little, taking steps backwards as in the middle of the room stood a man. "Man" didn't really seem to be the correct word though. This guy was gigantic. If Harry hadn't known better he might have thought the word "human" was made for this guy, "huge" plus "man" equals "human". In this case, that etymology made perfect sense.

The "human" turned around, his frame seeming to take forever to simply rotate, Harry was rooted to the spot; he knew that changes around the house were always blamed on him. He couldn't even begin to fathom what the price of this intruder might exact upon his hide. The huge face of this "human" was covered by an even larger beard but deep within the folds of the raggity hair lurked a mouth that began to split into a huge smile, as if the earth had split down the middle to reveal white-ish teeth rather then dirt and mud.

"Harry!", he crooned, his eyes lighting up with what may have been lightning.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!", Harry responded, backing up a little.

And suddenly he was right on top of Harry, his huge hand bearing down like some kind of mallet. Harry closed his eyes, thinking that if he was dead it would be hard for the Dudleys to punish him. Harry felt himself rising, the great warmth of the world beyond as the sun was blot out. And then there was a curious pressure on him, all around. The pressure continued and Harry was surprised by how lengthly the process of dying was, and then he felt a little droplet of water on his face, and he opened him eyes.

Squished against the man's chest, a good two meters in the air, Harry looked up into the face of this giant and gasped. The man was crying, big, huffy tears falling from his eyes. Harry was so shocked he simply uttered, without thinking, "There, there" and tried to pat the giant's back. The man started at once, his head jerking back just a bit, and then he looked down into Harry's face and saw the fear. "Oh, well, for... Gosh Harry, I didn't mean to scare yah!" The unusually large man gently set Harry down, and Harry, quite puzzled, realized that he had not been crushed but felt surprisingly good. Still, Harry backed up a little and tried to take in this surprising scene. And then he started to freak out. Harry knew that breaking the normal routine of his family was a quick way to get privaleges removed and beaten. Harry's face started to screw up, the panic of the situation starting to crash down around him. It was like the ocean was swallowing him up, but Harry had been overwhelmed before, in fact, most of his life had overwhelmed him, from his dreams to his family to the emotional battering that happened everyday. Harry knew a couple tricks, to stay cool, to not freeze up. When a large man, who is supposed to be your protector, starts hitting you, the worst thing you can do is stand still. You always have to keep moving, and so, Harry, rather than be crushed and swallowed, started to do something. He started to try and push Hagrid out the door, his face moving from the tight, pinched look of panic to the determined, screwed up face of someone who must do something and do it now.

Hagrid was still standing there, wringing his hands, and failing to create a series of words that adequately explained his sorrow for scaring Harry. He certainely didn't notice Harry pushing him away. Harry, however, was keenly aware of the fact that Hagrid was not moving at all and was remaining stubbornly still despite his best efforts. Finally, as Hagrid blubbered a bit more about how he should buy some nicer clothes, Harry pipped up, "Could you, uh, please... leave?" Hagrid, once again was startled by the small boy, and Harry noticed his profound effect on the gigantic man, stepped back a bit and said, "Harry, oh Harry, no, no, I won't leave. I'm here for you!"

Harry wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but just then the stove, which was still on, and which had been producing some bit of smoke (for the several minutes that Harry had been quite enthralled by Hagrid), let out one last blech of smoke, which promptly made the smoke alarm scream. Hagrid and Harry both jumped a bit, the former coming down heavily enough that the floor shook a bit, and Harry, realizing what this meant, began to turn a shade of blue.

Vernon Dursley was not a quick man, but Harry knew from experience that he managed to move his quickest whenever Harry had done something wrong. His bloated legs could jettison around his fat body like a chubby train if it needed to. And Vernon _liked_ catching Harry screwing things up, and since Vernon liked so few things, he made sure that he really moved whenever Harry was causing, accidently or not, trouble.

This, obviously, was one of those times, and Vernon Dursley shot down the stairs like a rocket, his face as red as his maroon bathrobe. Dursley, so bent on his vindication of Harry, never even saw Hagrid but just began yelling. Harry moved away, towards the smoke alarm, hoping that by being closer to the alarm he might be able to make it stop. Also, any movement away from Vernon was good.

Vernon was just ending a particularly nasty triade(?) about Harry being a no good whelp spawned from two useless scumbags when his hand went up to smack Harry. It was at this point that Hagrid made his presence known. And if Vernon was a chubby train then Hagrid was a tank with another tank on top of it. He had no trouble stepping in front of Vernon, grabbing his hand, and bearing down on top of the smaller, fatter man like some kind of boulder. Instantly, Vernon was a foot taller, as his feet dangled uselessly below him. Hagrid had literally lifted the man off his feet, with one hand. Harry was still cringing, but part of his mind was filing this experience away in a folder marked, "Awesome". However, Harry, convinced that he was about to be beat once again, had gone into protection mode. And as he got tunnel vision and scooted himself back into the corner of the kitchen, he could just barely make out the smoke alarm and Hagrid. The odd pulsing whine of the alarm becoming a weird backdrop for the curses that tore out of Hagrid beard and seemed to literally cut down Vernon until he was much smaller, folding down in upon himself.

Harry had once been caught in the shower, sneaking food and eating it. Apparently, Vernon had noticed the light being on, at a time when Harry was supposed to be in bed. He had forced the door open, the exertion making the man even redder than normal. He had beaten Harry pretty badly, although, honestly, it was the horrible things that he always said that made Harry feel particularly worthless. During it, Harry had caught sight of his own face, the color drained from it, his eyes pale and shiny, and he had shuddered from that sight. And now, Harry was seeing the same look on Vernon's face, that look of utter terror and fear and destruction of one's self.

Harry was further terrified to see such a look on Vernon's face. The idea that this was something that could happen to everyone was quickly overshadowed by the incredible flash of events that Harry saw happening to himself once this little ordeal was over. Hagrid wouldn't be here forever. Harry knew that; he had once thought he was being rescued once before. That had not worked out. Harry let out a little whimper; Vernon would not, could not let this lie. Once Hagrid was gone Harry would be dealing with something he had never dealt with before: A Vernon Dursley who had been terrified.

These thoughts raced through Harry's head, fueled by adrenaline and fear and an awful taste in his mouth that was similar to acid and sick. Slowly, Harry became aware of the yelling and the odd whimpering sounds. Hagrid was shouting, yelling at Vernon that no "muggle" was going to "touch a hair on Harry's head" while he was around. And Vernon, a man who had become a manifestation of pain and hurt for Harry was sobbing, whimpering; the way that an old mutt had whimpered when Vernon's son, Dudley, had kicked it. It was all happening too fast, the kitchen was spinning, and the smoker alarm, and the whimpering, and the shouting, and these two big men. And then Harry was vomiting and worrying about cleaning it up, and then Hagrid was there, and Vernon was in the corner, not even picking himself up, and Harry was falling against the behemoth that was Hagrid and his eyes closed.

When Harry awoke, things were much the same, although he was being treated to quite the surreal scene. Vernon was cleaning up his puke, while Dudley and Petunia looked on, their faces horrified and as frozen by the scene as Harry was. Harry tried to reach out to help, knowing that cleaning was his job, but he was wrapped tightly in Hagrid's arms. Hagrid started at once, feeling Harry move around and put him on the floor. Wordlessly, Aunt Petunia and Dudley looked at him and then back to Vernon.

Hagrid kneeled down beside Harry and looked into his eyes, "Hello Harry, how are you feeling now?"

"G-good... I guess." Harry glanced nervously at the rest of his "family".

"Great!" Suddenly, Hagrid was all smiles, those block like teeth splitting his face in two once again. "Well, then I expect we will be leaving now then. Got to make sure you get all your books and whatnot!"

"Books?" Harry looked over at Vernon and the rapidly disappearing vomit.

"Why of course! How else do you expect to learn all your spells and wizarding skills if not from books? Dumbledore always said that books were the gateway to great knowledge!" Hagrid was positively beaming.

"What's a Dumbledore?" Harry thought it sounded like a piece of candy, but what type of candy liked books?

"What's a Dumbledore! WHATS A DUMBLEDORE!" Hagrid jumped to his feet and bore down on Vernon, who immediately tapped into his ancient possum ancestry and tried to play dead. "You've not told him then!"

"Told me? Told me what?" Harry was bewildered, torn between staring at Vernon, playing dead in the left over remenants of vomit, and Hagrid, who apparently knew something of great importance.

"Oh Harry, Harry!" Hagrid grabbed Harry once again, hugging him and bringing Harry's face right up against his own. "Yer a wizard, Harry!"

Harry collasped a bit, at first angry at this revelation. What could be more ridiculous? But then something in Harry unknotted, some part of him that had always held back, that had stoppered his own belief and kept him sane in a place that brokered no nonsense. Inside of himself Harry felt a thing uncoil and radiate, and he knew that he had never heard something so ridiculous or so true.

Hagrid was glaring at Vernon and the rest of the family over Harry's shoulder. Harry simply stood there and awoke to a new world that had just risen inside of himself. It had always been there, but now it was awake, the nutritional value of another's confirmation plus Harry's own growing belief had given wings to something that had, moments before, been flightless.

Hagrid stood up, picking Harry up with him. Turning towards Vernon, still trying to play dead in the vomit, he growled, "We're leaving now. Harry needs his school supplies before he leaves tomorrow. I'll be having some words with you later!" Vernon flinched at this, although his eyes stayed closed. Petunia and Dudley had, at some point, moved into the corner of the refridgerator and wall, pressing themselves into the space and trying to become much, much smaller. Hagrid looked around once more, harumphed, and then he exited the kitchen and went right out the front door.

And that was how Harry Potter learned he was a wizard and started his very first school shopping trip on his eleventh birthday.

* * *

><p>Deep within Hogwarts, Dumbledore smiled sadly to himself. What was a Dumbledore indeed? The Audirium Lossono charm that he had subtly placed upon Hagrid was proving to be relaying some rather profound questions from Harry Potter. "What is a Dumbledore?" questioned Dumbledore, "why nothing more than an old wizard, playing chess and winning the game but losing those outside" answered Dumbledore, smiling sadly.<p>

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

Let me know what you think of the pacing,

the perspective, all of that good jazz. Look

forward to being dissected and told what sucks!


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